


The Tangle Knife

by snelf



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 10:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15794424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snelf/pseuds/snelf





	The Tangle Knife

Invaders in the Marsh.  
  
The swamp animals sense it first. Urgency breaks the night as the mangrove erupts with desolate calls. Splashes, fluttering, branches moaning. Folk emerging warily from their huts- blinking, confused, slow hands fumbling to start fire and illuminate this hidden danger. Dread polluting the air around them. Not this far in. This doesn’t happen here.  
  
Huddling together. The elders stand proud, though their eyes are shadowed. They are afraid. Afraid of the crashing and snapping all around them now, everywhere. Boot-falls of those not used to moving through such thick vegetation at night. Afraid of the fire- in their haste to understand, to defend, they have given away their presence.  
  
Small ones and the old in the middle. Warriors move to ring the frightened villagers, facing out into the blackness of the marsh. The mangroves twist in distress but give up no secrets. A hatchling’s frightened wail breaks through the intense silence. Quickly hushed. You can hear them clearly now, their voices carrying euphoria as they lose themselves in their hunt. Animals. Must have slipped past the defence at Stormhold a taken the south-western route through wild jungle. Almost impossible for outsiders. Must of had help. No time to think of a betrayer now- they have almost broken through the trees.  
  
Ragged breathing. Time stops. Glances are exchanged, and though no one dare break the intense silence so much is said. Goodbyes. Regrets. I-love-yous. Understanding. Despairing. Facing the stars, knees in the mud. One collective, anguished, silent scream to the sky, to the roots, to the rocks and anyone who was listening: _I don’t want this life to end._ Thoughts of bedrolls left half-warm, of meals never eaten. Of starting again, someday. There is the briefest moment of peace as the resignation that what will come next cannot be changed or diverted now and adrenaline kicks in.  
  
And then Oblivion descends on Xal Ithix.  
  
The slavers crash through the treeline, snapping branches and tearing up ferns in their haste and bloodlust. Less than they had thought- everyone knows the trees play tricks at night- but still more than enough to overpower the untrained folk of this tiny farming village. Despite their protective circle, some villagers lose their nerve and bolt with screams of desperation. Fireballs and arrows are hurled after them, and the screams soon cut off one by one. Metal flashes orange and blue and red, a reflection of the chaos around them. Their own warriors, little more than marsh-savvy scouts, really, unleash a cry of hate and revenge. Shields are lifted, providing cover for their clanmates still holding fast in the circle. Wooden rainfall. The slavers press on.  
  
At first it seems as if the battle could be turned in their favour, that it may be won and their lives spared. The dark elves move stiffly, their leathers dirty and torn after such a long journey through unfamiliar hard terrain. The argonians are well rested, and afraid. Fear lends strength and the first few slavers to reach the warrior-circle are cut down with little effort.  
  
Then the village healer’s chest explodes in flames. He screams sickeningly, feet slipping in the wet mud, and goes down. Gurgling, shuddering, clothes and scales melted into one. Death is not swift. The scouts turn to stare in horror, momentarily losing focus. Mages emerge from the trees. Hands raised, they make a squeezing motion, trapping the magicka within tight fists. Power and heat building rapidly, ready to be directed into the huddle of terrified farmer-folk. They want to separate them, to make them run and scurry and pick them off one by one.  
  
Bows, quickly snatched, aimed, released. Arrows Six-Spines had fletched only yesterday. A few find their mark- the mage who murdered their healer drops with a satisfying yowl. Goo and tears streak her cheeks as she hits marsh water, arrow lodged in her eyeball. Kagouti food now. The casters pause. Argonians yell in triumph. And the second wave of slavers reaches their circle.  
  
Distracted still, their scouts barely have a second to turn before the dunmer strike out with swords. They aim for legs and arms, disarming, debilitating. Weapons are thrust from hands. Instinctively the argonians able to fight press forward, sheltering the vulnerable behind their backs. They cannot keep this up much longer. They are outnumbered, untrained, shocked and injured.  
  
Hopelessness sets in and begins to sap the determination in the scout’s defence. This fight is almost over. More bodies fall and slap against the mud, wounded and winded. They stay down. Some choke out bitter tears, fingers sinking into the marsh as if they could anchor themselves there with grip alone. Most stay silent, shattered body and soul.  
  
Standing at the edge of the defense, a mother turns her back against the tide of dread. Her eyes are brimming with panic, though it is not for her own safety. She scans the forest line. Makes no move to run. Knows what will happen if she does- and right now she is caught up in the desperation of wanting to live. Frantically searching for something out there. Claws digging into the scales of her palms, tail lashing. Spines ridged. Daring to hope. To her left a hunter falls to his knees, swearing. Clawing desperately at the throwing knife lodged in his abdomen. Blood pooling at her feet. She ignores it. Time almost up. Please-  
  
Then, she sees it. Her eyes lock on two pinpricks of flame peering out from the shelter of the trees, almost invisible against the gloom. They blink and she smiles her last genuine smile for many, many years. Shoulders relax as a calloused hand wraps around her upper arm and yanks roughly. The village is mostly silent now. Harsh words shouted over her head. They think she means to flee. She shakes her head, still fixated on the tree line. Not a reply, a signal. The flames disappear.  
  
Though they bind her hands and feet tightly, the argonian’s soul soars. Taking an unsteady breath after what seems like an eternity of holding it, she turns and stares defiantly into the deep red eyes of her fate knowing that, at the very least, her disobedient hatchling is _safe._  
  
And stillness descends over the Marsh once more. 


End file.
